Snapping the phone closed in her hand, Tori slipped it into the front pocket of her off-white slacks and stepped back into the hallway, her feet turning toward the library’s main room as if they were equipped with an autopilot feature. Fixing things with Milo didn’t lessen the heartache over Debbie and the kids, but it did make her feel less alone. In fact, if she were honest with herself, his support served to reignite the strength she’d felt wilting the past few days—a strength that had been challenged by the inability to find answers.

  But one thing was certain. A killer was out there. Somewhere. And it was only a matter of time until she put the pieces together . . .

  She looked up from the computer as Nina returned from lunch. “Good break?”

  “It was. I got a few errands taken care of for Duwayne. That’ll make him real happy when he gets home from work.” Nina came around the counter and set her purse on the ground beside the stool. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Nope. Sally Colter was in here earlier with her triplets. Those boys are so well behaved. She’s doing an amazing job with them.” Tori looked back at the screen, her fingers tapping out the names of a few just-released paperback titles for the mystery shelves. “I’m almost done here and then I’m gonna get our first few orders together for the nursing home.”

  “Do you have any of your bags yet?”

  “I do. Just three. All from Margaret Louise. But I’m sure I’ll get a bunch tonight at circle.” She closed out of the ordering screen and reached for the order slips she’d placed inside a small wicker basket under the counter. “It works though, because—as of right now—we only have two orders. One for Eunice Weatherby and one for”—she looked at the sheet of paper—“a man named Milton Gregory.”

  Nina extended her hand. “I could fill one if you’d like.”

  “Okay, sure. How about you do”—she looked down at the two order forms in her hands, felt her throat constrict at the sight of Colby’s name on Eunice’s sheet—“Mr. Gregory. I already know Eunice’s list. I read through it yesterday.”

  “I’m not sure I ever told you, but I think takin’ these orders from the nursin’ home is a neat idea.” Nina looked down at the sheet in her hand. “My granddad was in a nursin’ home ’fore he died and it was sad how many people there never had visitors, never got home baked treats, never got a present. And puttin’ the books in special homemade bags just makes it even more special.”

  She tried to follow Nina’s words but it was no use. Nothing seemed to stick in her mind for very long these days except thoughts of Colby Calhoun. A whole week had gone by since the night she and Debbie discovered he was gone. And still, there were no answers. As much as she hated to lower Dirk’s position on her possible suspect list, Milo had had a point. If Dirk had harmed Colby, why would he still be throwing darts at the man’s picture?

  “I hate to see you so upset, Miss Sinclair.”

  Tori looked up, forced her mouth to turn upward in some semblance of a smile. “I’m okay, Nina. It’s just . . .” She stopped, looked back at the list in front of her, her shoulders slumping of their own volition. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it, I guess.”

  Sliding her dark and slender arm behind Tori’s back, Nina gave a gentle squeeze. “I can. You feel other people’s hurt. I saw it the first time we met. Do you realize you look downright stricken every time a child cries in the library—not stricken because they’re loud but because you want to fix things. And back when that whole mess with Tiffany Ann Gilbert was goin’ on, you thought about me instead of yourself.”

  She set Eunice’s list down and peered up at her assistant through long, thick lashes. “Thought about you?” she asked, her voice raspy and unsure.

  Nina nodded. “Duwayne told me what happened.”

  “He did?” She shifted on the stool, unsure of what to say in the event they weren’t on the same page.

  Nina nodded again. “All those things that happened to you? Duwayne told me they were his fault. He told me he was just tryin’ to help me get ahead. And he told me how you simply encouraged him to believe in me.”

  “Wow,” she whispered. “That took a lot of courage for him to do. I hope you know that.”

  “I do. But it all just goes to show the kind of person you are. So it makes perfect sense why Mr. Calhoun’s disappearance has upset you the way it has.” Nina’s hand dropped to her side as she looked down at the book order in her hand once again. “I also have faith you’ll figure it out. I only wish I had half of your motivation.”

  Tori watched the petite woman exit the information desk area in favor of finding the first book on Milton Gregory’s list. Her words, however, stayed right where she’d left them—in Tori’s heart.

  She looked back down at her own list, lingered her sights on Colby’s name. “Nina’s right you know,” she whispered. “I will figure out what happened to you.”

  Shifting Dirk’s name lower on her list was a minor set-back in the grand scheme of things. Harrison James was still very much on the top.

  Shaking her thoughts free of potential murder suspects and their motives, Tori headed toward the mystery section and Eunice Weatherby’s first choice. A Cry in the Night was one of her favorite suspense novels as well.

  Colby’s novel brought her to the true crime section and the large display she’d assembled months earlier in honor of the local author. As she neared the face-out display, Tori’s feet slowed. The static display featured four shelves, one for each of Colby’s novels. With each successive book, the man’s name had grown larger and larger on the cover. Yet no matter how big the font, his name had still failed to supersede the title in prominence. It was a goal she knew he’d been working toward . . .

  A goal he’d never get to reach now.

  Sighing heavily, she grabbed the copy the elderly woman had requested and simply held it, her fingers tracing the author’s name as if it were lettered in gold.

  “Colby,” she muttered, as her fingers fanned out over the book’s title and impressive cover art. Slowly, carefully, she turned the book over, examined the back cover, read the blurbs from fellow authors, scanned the Web site address of the pub—

  She pulled the book closer to her face, her gaze reading and rereading the name in front of her.

  Lions Publishing.

  “Lions Publishing . . . Lions Publishing. That’s”—she searched her memory bank for the correct name—“William Clayton Wilder’s company.”

  “Miss Sinclair?”

  Had he known one of his authors lived in Sweet Briar?

  Nina popped around the end of the aisle. “Miss Sinclair, you okay?”

  She held the book upward. “Did you know Colby’s books were published by Lions Publishing?”

  Her assistant shrugged. “I didn’t ’fore last weekend. I guess I don’t pay much mind to anything besides the title and author most times.”

  “What was last weekend?” She pulled the book back into her arms and studied the publisher’s Web site address once again.

  “Last week . . . on the mornin’ of the festival . . . Mr. Calhoun was here with some man from Lions Publishin’.”

  She stared at the woman. “He was?”

  “Yes, Miss Sinclair. Mr. Calhoun was showin’ him the display you set up and the man was wavin’ his hands ’round and talkin’ ’bout the importance of promotion.” Nina pointed at the tiered shelf and smiled proudly. “He said your display, Miss Sinclair, is what they needed everywhere—bookstores, too.”

  “Did you happen to hear the man’s name?” she asked, the woman’s words circling her thoughts wildly.

  “Mr. Calhoun introduced me. It was some big long name and sounded very important.”

  Closing the gap between them, Tori stopped in front of Nina, her hands tightly gripping the books in her arms. “William Clayton Wilder?”

  Nina clapped her hands together. “Yes, yes. That’s exactly right, Miss Sinclair. Did you meet him, too?”

  “No . . .” Her words trailed off as she strode past Nina and over to the information desk.

  “Is somethin’ wrong, Miss Sinclair? Should I have called you that day?”

  She waved her hand in the air. “No, of course not.” She replayed the woman’s words again, words and a voice that morphed into Debbie’s . . .

  Only to be cut off by Georgina.

  William Clayton Wilder hadn’t simply been passing through Sweet Briar on the day of the festival. And he hadn’t been there to see Ella May Vetter, either. He’d been there to meet with Colby.

  Colby.

  “Nina? How did Colby seem that morning?”

  “Unhappy. Distracted. I’d thought maybe he didn’t like that William Clayton fella. He was kind of pushy. I mean, I wasn’t trying to listen, Miss Sinclair—I really wasn’t. But he was houndin’ Mr. Calhoun about doin’ everything he could to be a household name from here to California.”

  “Well he got his way, didn’t he? Colby’s death has probably landed him on television sets across the entire . . .” She stopped, her mouth gaping open as a rush of thoughts flooded her mind simultaneously. Bit and pieces of ideas flitted to the foreground only to disappear before she could assemble them into some sort of order.

  “Miss Sinclair?”

  She held up her finger as she tried to keep up with the path her thoughts had chosen.

  “. . . William Clayton Wilder is single, Victoria. Single and wealthy . . .”

  “Rose?” she whispered as the elderly woman’s words continued, their frail raspy quality echoing inside her ears . . .

  “. . . Though why she’d be interested is beyond me. That man has a reputation for being ruthless with everything from his handling of employees to his unethical publicity tactics . . .”

  She slapped her hand over her mouth as the enormity of the woman’s words hit her with a one-two punch.

  Was it possible? Was there a chance Colby’s disappearance was nothing but a publicity stunt?

  “Nina, I need you to hold down the fort.” She ran around the desk, grabbed her purse from the ground beside Nina’s, and headed toward the hallway, her heart slamming against her chest as a week’s worth of torturous questions faded to the background in favor of one.

  But was it really possible?

  Chapter 19

  Tori sat in her car and stared up at the Calhoun home—a home that was envied for the happiness and love it witnessed on a daily basis. Everything, from the wide front porch with the cluster of rockers to the swing that dangled from a moss tree in the front yard, screamed family. And closeness. Yet in a week’s time, that happiness—that closeness—had all but faded into a memory as the present became inundated with unimaginable heartache.

  On the drive over, she’d done everything she could to discount the thoughts running through her head. Tried to chalk them up to lack of sleep and increased self-pressure to bring at least a small sense of closure to Debbie and the children.

  But try as she might, she couldn’t shake the troubling picture that had assembled itself in her mind—the first few pieces forming at the library, the rest falling into place as she maneuvered the streets of Sweet Briar. The only saving grace, though, was the completed picture that emerged.

  A picture she couldn’t share with Debbie until she was absolutely certain of its reality.

  Summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed, Tori pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the pavement, her legs uncharacteristically wobbly. There were so many things she needed to ask Debbie, little bits of information that could mean all the difference in the world.

  The problem was whether she could glean what she needed without tipping her hand in the process—a mistake that could serve to reshatter an already broken heart.

  Tori walked around her car and stepped onto the sidewalk, her feet instinctively stopping as she stared up at the house and swallowed. Her poker playing skills had always been atrocious thanks to the very thing Nina had pointed out that morning—Tori wore her heart on her sleeve.

  A quality that was completely unacceptable at the moment.

  Inhaling deeply, Tori willed her legs to follow the stairs that led to the Calhouns’ front porch, her heart pounding with each step she took. As she reached the top, she stared at the door—the same door she and Debbie had found ajar just one week earlier.

  She knocked, her tiny fist barely making a dent amid the afternoon sounds of a neighborhood teeming with children. She knocked again, louder.

  A curtain to the left of the door inched aside, revealing Debbie’s ashen face and red swollen eyes. Unsure of what else to do, Tori waved.

  Seconds later, the sound of a lock disengaging echoed through the door just before Debbie’s face peeked around its corner. “Victoria, how are you?”

  She reached out, pulled her friend into an embrace. “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess.” Debbie stepped back and motioned Tori inside. “When I need to cry—like now—my mom takes the kids to her house. When I need to be strong, she brings them back.”

  “If now is a bad time, I-I could come back.” She stopped just inside the front entryway and eyed her friend with concern. “I don’t want to force a visit on you if you’re not up to it.”

  Debbie pushed her hand through her unkempt hair and leaned against the wall. “I’m not sure there will ever be a good time again. For anything.”

  “I’m so sorry, Debbie. So very, very sorry.” She knew the words were useless but it was all she could think to say, to do. “If there’s anything at all I can do . . . you have to tell me.”

  The woman managed a wan smile as she pushed off the wall and gestured for Tori to follow her into the parlor. “It’s nice to have someone who cares regardless of what they think of Colby.”

  Think of Colby?

  “You haven’t heard, have you?” she asked as she sat down on the chair Debbie indicated, a navy armchair that looked as if it could swallow her whole.

  “I haven’t heard anything. I haven’t really wanted to,” Debbie said, her voice cracking as she claimed the cream-colored sofa across from Tori. “Colby was my husband. He was a good husband, a good father, and a good man no matter what anyone in this town says.”

  “They’ve been looking for him. They spent the entire weekend searching.” She studied her friend as the woman twisted her hands inside her lap, her shoulders hunched forward in sadness. “I think most of them realize they were wrong.”

  Debbie’s hands stilled momentarily as she looked up through tear-filled eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “The residents. The men, really. They’ve been walking the woods. Knocking on doors.” She leaned forward, engaging Debbie in eye contact. “They’ve been looking for Colby.”

  One by one, tears trickled down the woman’s flawless skin. “Who?”

  Rising to her feet, Tori walked around the coffee table in the center of the room and sat beside her friend, her hand pulling the woman’s from her lap and holding it gently. “Pretty much everyone. Duwayne Morgan, Carter Johnson, Milo, Chief Dallas.” She continued rattling off names as Debbie’s tears fell more rapidly. “And that’s not all. There are others who are determined to make amends as well . . . to help you and the kids.”

  Debbie swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand as she waited for Tori to continue.

  “In fact, right now”—she glanced at her watch—“Margaret Louise and Rose should be greeting the after work crowd at the bakery and getting ready to turn things over to Emily so they can get ready for our sewing circle later this evening.”

  “Rose is helping at . . .” The woman’s voice trailed off as sobs racked her athletic body—gut-wrenching sounds that brought tears to Tori’s eyes.

  “Yes. Rose. And Georgina’s taking the afternoon shift tomorrow.”

  “B-b-but they w-w-were so ang-angry at Colby at the l-l-last meeting.” Debbie spoke through the tears as she rested her head on Tori’s shoulder.

  “And they were wrong to put that on you the way that they did. They realize that now.” Tori swiveled her body toward Debbie as the woman picked up her head. “They love you, Debbie. We all do. We want to help you.”

  “Then bring Colby home . . . alive,” she whispered as the sobbing began again.

  Seconds turned to minutes as Tori simply held her friend, her shirt growing wet against her shoulder. But it didn’t matter. Being there, did.

  When the crying finally stopped, Debbie leaned her head back against the couch, her nose red, and her eyes puffy. “I can’t get it out of my mind. Not any of it. The letter. The blood. The knife. The mess in our room.”

  Tori nodded in understanding. “I know. I can’t either.”

  “Thank you for being there with me that night.” Debbie raked a hand through her hair and looked at Tori through eyes that were suddenly hooded. “I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

  She patted the woman’s hand. “I’m glad I was there, too.”

  “Chief Dallas doesn’t seem to have any leads at all. The only prints on the knife were mine, which doesn’t help, and the only prints on the letter were mine and Colby’s.”

  “Are you serious?” She mulled over the information, tried it on for size. “Then doesn’t that mean there’s a good likelihood that whoever wrote the note was also the one who took Colby?”

  Debbie lifted her shoulders only to let them fall downward once again. “Why would you say that?”

  “No prints on the knife . . . no prints on the letter . . . seems to me the same smart person was responsible for both. Though why someone would bother to write a threatening note prior to killing someone is beyond me.”

  Unless the whole thing was a ruse from start to finish. To create a better story . . .

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Victoria. I do okay at the bakery, but it’s not enough to raise two children in”—she raised her hands into the air—“a home like this by myself.”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  “William has been so nice. He’s checked in every day on the phone and he even stopped by yesterday after he met with Margaret Louise.”

 

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